


The Wind Will Whisper Your Name

by Carol_the_Dabbler



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carol_the_Dabbler/pseuds/Carol_the_Dabbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been several months since Sherlock fell from the roof of Bart's.  John Watson has worked through the worst of his shock and grief, and is moving on with his life.  He's even found a girlfriend.  But he can't seem to shake the feeling that some details of that fateful day don't quite fit.  (He's not stupid, you know.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Means a Great Deal to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Caya, without whose insights and gentle nagging this story would probably never have been finished, let alone coherent. Thanks also to 26foxbuck221, who caught some things that neither Caya nor I had noticed.

John Watson, freshly showered, shampooed, and shaven, emerged from the rather spartan bathroom of Cathie Patterson's furnished London flat. At least, "flat" was the word he used, though Cathie, being an American, naturally called it her apartment. He reported to the equally-spartan kitchen/living room as she was breaking eggs into a frying pan. "Good morning! Again."

"Good morning, John. Did that girlie razor work for you?"

"You tell me," he replied, coming up behind her and nuzzling the back of her neck.

"Mmm, yes, _very_ nice!"

He moved around beside her and leaned back against the edge of the counter. "Cathie, I know I already said this last night, but it honestly means a great deal to me, being able _finally_ , after all these months, to talk to someone about - what happened. About Sherlock."

"Well, it was obviously important to you. And I _am_ interested." She looked up from scrambling the eggs. "But surely you had already talked about it with the friends you told me about, the ones who actually knew Sherlock - " She closed her eyes and listed them, " your landlady, the police detective, the pathologist...."

"I tried to, believe me. But they would just change the subject, every time. And I would almost swear that Molly - the pathologist - has been avoiding me." He sighed. "I suppose they all think they're sparing my feelings."

She thought a moment. "Or maybe it's just that I'm the only person you know who hadn't already read about it in the papers - since I wasn't transferred over here till a few weeks later."

He nodded. "After all the hubbub had died down." An odd look crossed his face. "Thank God you _didn't_ meet me any sooner. I wasn't fit company for a while."

She touched his arm with the hand that wasn't wielding the spatula. "That's perfectly understandable."

He chuckled mirthlessly. "In a way. But it went way beyond the usual grief syndrome. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him - falling. Or lying on the pavement in a pool of his own blood." John grimaced, but continued, his voice now harsh. "I took to having a shot of whisky at bedtime. That helped, it really did - and two or three shots helped even more - but when I eventually woke up, the memories would come back. So I'd have a drink. Then one morning I woke up in a strange woman's bed with absolutely no recollection of how I had got there - and that scared the _shit_ out of me. Oh, sorry!"

"Hey, there's no need to apologize for a nice clear description," Cathie assured him, then continued with an impish little smile, "though I do hope it was only figurative!"

John raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat. " _As_ I was saying, that frightened me so badly that I stopped the constant drinking, and settled back into the Baker Street flat, and I got a full-time job at the surgery where I'd been doing locum work. And of course right after that, you and I had our first appointment – is that leg still behaving itself?"

Cathie found John's abrupt shifts into Doctor Mode both reassuring and endearing, and just a bit amusing as well. "Yes, it's been fine - not a single cramp since I started stretching my hamstrings."

"Good! So anyway, you have a fair idea of what my life has been like for the past few months."

Her eyes twinkled. "Especially the past few days."

John grinned appreciatively for a moment, but then seemed lost in thought while he watched Cathie put bread into the toaster and serve up the eggs. When she had finished, he spoke hesitantly. "Later on, I'd like to show you where it happened - if that would interest you at all. Whenever you have some spare time."

The toaster popped.

 _You dear, sweet, silly man_ , she thought, _how could I possibly_ not _be interested?_ Aloud, she said, "How about right after breakfast?"

* * * * *

Watching John devour his eggs and toast while he read the Sunday paper, Cathie thought how odd it seemed that they had been dating only a few days, and hadn't even really been alone together until she'd invited him up for tea and cookies just last night. This morning it felt completely natural to be sitting across the breakfast table from him. Of course, she had begun thinking of him as a dear friend while he was still her doctor, but she had chalked that up to being so far from home, and had sometimes chided herself for it. Now she was beginning to hope that her feelings had actually been right all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is written mostly in American English, from the point of view of an American character, but the British characters do (to the best of my ability) speak British English, transcribed in British spelling. I apologize for any confusion this may cause, and ask that you notify me of any slip-ups. Thank you!


	2. Where it Happened

After a pleasantly uneventful breakfast, there was a trans-Atlantic moment (as they had taken to calling them) when John approached the kitchen sink, rolling up his sleeves and cheerfully announcing his intention to "wash up," but then much to Cathie's relief and delight, began to wash the dishes rather than his hands and face. It wasn't the first such incident, and she was sure it wouldn't be the last, but there was already some progress - she had very nearly broken her habit of referring to a toilet as "the john."

* * * * *

They walked slowly along an ordinary city street, holding hands but talking very little due to John's mood of somber reflection. Then he pulled her aside, ostensibly to admire the flowers in a corner churchyard and nuzzle playfully at her ear, but also, Cathie soon realized, to whisper covertly. "I'm probably just being paranoid, but there's a chance that we're being observed. I'll explain more fully later, but we need to be careful not to say anything they might consider interesting till we're away from here."

 _Observed?_ she thought, startled. _By whom? The reporter who exposed Sherlock as a fraud? The police?_

But before she could whisper back a question, he had led her around the corner, and was saying, "There's St. Bartholomew's Hospital ahead on the right."

"That's where - "

"Yes," he interrupted in a valiant effort at a conversational tone, "I spent a _lot_ of time at Bart's as a student."

 _He wasn't sure where I was heading with that_ , she thought, _and he was worried that it might be something "interesting."_ She squeezed his hand, hoping he would read it as "I understand," and they walked on a short distance in silence.

The street branched around a low brick building, and John steered her to the left. "This is where the cab dropped me off that day," he said matter-of-factly. "Sherlock was already standing up there." He pointed with his free hand to a four-story stone building across the way. Not nearly as tall as she had pictured it. But tall enough.

She gazed up at the roof, trying to imagine what that must have been like for John, but he was already tugging her by the hand, walking briskly around to the left of the single-story building. "Sherlock didn't jump, he just sort of _allowed_ himself to fall from the roof. I ran in this direction and bumped into the bicycle about here -" he pointed at the dark pavement, "- and lost my balance. But I got right back up and went on." He led her on toward the four-story building.

Ignoring a small cluster of people just a few feet away at a bus stop, John came to a halt near a rectangular area marked off from the rest of the sidewalk by a double row of much smaller paving stones. Cathie noticed a troubled, far-away look in his eyes and held his hand a bit more snugly, but was relieved when he spoke again in a voice that was still steady. "Sherlock was lying _there_ ," he told her, pointing to one corner of the rectangle, "with a number of hospital personnel surrounding him. I checked his wrist for a pulse, but didn't find any. Then he was carried away on a stretcher, into the hospital, and I left."

That said, he led her resolutely on past the bus stop and back toward the church on the corner - which was something of a relief since she was starting to notice strange looks from the bus patrons.

* * * * *

An hour later, they were a few miles away, entering Regent's Park. They could have returned to Cathie's apartment, or they could more easily have gone to some other park, but John apparently had his reasons, and she was sufficiently curious to play along. He led her along a paved pathway, past flower beds and crowded wooden benches and clusters of lawn chairs with people sunning themselves, past picnics and frisbee games, past more flower beds and even an ornamental waterfall, till they reached a broad expanse of relatively unoccupied lawn.

In the center of this vacant area, John stopped, removed his jacket, and spread it on the grass. "We'll have to sit on the ground, I'm afraid," he apologized, motioning gallantly for her to be seated on the jacket.

She thought of retorting that she could sit directly on the grass just as well as he could, but then realized she was being silly - her pale-blue slacks would show stains much more readily than either his jeans or his jacket - so she merely said, "Why, thank you, Sir Walter!" and sat down on the jacket, hugging her knees.

John sat close alongside her but facing the opposite direction, put his hand on her far shoulder, and leaned in till his cheek brushed against hers. "I know this must seem really bizarre," he assured her, whispering directly into her ear, "and I feel a bit silly myself, but - well, to be frank, I don't know exactly _what_ is going on, so I prefer not to take chances."

She steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder and did her half of the leaning. "Why do you think there's something unusual going on?"

"What I told you last night is the _public_ version of what happened that day, more or less what was in the newspapers and on telly. But I saw details that don't quite fit, things that seem odd. And the more I try to figure it all out, the odder it gets."

"Such as?"

"It's just lots of little things - for example, the bicycle. Have _you_ ever been knocked down by a bicycle?" She shook her head. "Me neither, till then. I'll admit that I was distracted, and perhaps the cyclist was too. But still, it's odd. And why did Sherlock insist that I stand where I could not _possibly_ see the pavement where he was going to fall?"

"Well, you did have a good view of the roof from there - and he must have had a good view of you. Maybe that was important to him."

"I can't dispute that, and I agree that taken one by one, any of these things could have a perfectly ordinary explanation. But where did all those doctors and nurses come from so quickly? OK, it's a hospital, maybe they just happened to be waiting for the bus. Maybe. But then there was his pulse."

"I thought you said he didn't have any."

"I didn't _feel_ any. But that was in his wrist, which is not the easiest spot to find a pulse, even under normal conditions. I kept blaming myself later for not having tried his carotid artery instead - until it dawned on me that I had not been _allowed_ to. Several of those people were holding me back - which I assumed at the time was out of pity - and because of that, the only part of Sherlock that I could possibly reach was one specific wrist. What if _that_ was their reason for restraining me? It wouldn't have taken them very long to rig up some sort of tourniquet, to stop the pulse in just that wrist."

Cathie mentally replayed what he'd just said, to be sure that she had heard what she _thought_ she had heard. "Are you saying that he could have fallen that far and still been alive?"

"I don't know for certain _what_ I'm saying. But the more I think about it, the more I think the whole thing was carefully planned. And I do know for an absolute certainty that if anyone in the world could figure out how to fall off the top of Bart's without killing himself, that person would be Sherlock Holmes."

She thought a moment. "Are you saying that mostly because of the wrist?"

"That, and where he had me stand, and one other thing. They rolled him over, and I remember noticing that his eyes were open - "

"Isn't that normal? I mean, people don't _actually_ close their eyes when they die, do they, like those hokey scenes in the movies?"

"No, you're right, that's perfectly normal. But I had a feeling that _something_ was odd, although I couldn't think what. Then I finally realized - his pupils were not dilated. By itself, that'd be fairly meaningless, just unusual. And I may even be misremembering. But taking all those things together - " He took a deep breath and waited for her response.

"John, please don't take this the wrong way, but - "

He sat back with a sigh and a rueful smile. "Yes, I know, it's just crazy wishful thinking."

She shook her head. "No. I was going to say it _sounds_ crazy. But I'm not so sure that it really is. You could be _wrong_ , of course, but then again you might onto something." She leaned in closer to whisper, "You said someone might be watching us," she reminded him. "Who?"

"All I know for sure is that the night before Sherlock - _fell_ , he found what I took to be a spy camera hidden in our flat. Whoever hid it could obviously have hidden other equipment as well. With Sherlock gone, they may no longer be interested in me, but I can't be certain. And if they _are_ still interested in me, they may be interested in you as well now, so we can't be certain of our privacy in either my flat or yours. Or, obviously, in public."

"Do you have any idea why someone would be watching you in the first place?"

"Sherlock thought it was related to the computer key code somehow."

"OK, I didn't really understand that part when you mentioned it last night."

John pulled back in surprise, then leaned in again. "I was hoping _you_ would be able to explain it to _me_. Isn't your job something to do with computers?"

"I'm a software engineer, yes - but I need more information. Tell me everything you know about this code."

"Moriarty has some sort of key code that he can use to break into any computer system. That's how he got past the security systems at the Tower of London and the prison and the bank." He bowed his head and sighed. "I'm trying to remember what else Sherlock and Mycroft said about it. I'm fairly certain that Mycroft called it 'a few lines of computer code' - and Sherlock said Moriarty must have hidden it somewhere in our flat."

"OK, I'm starting to understand. But of course Sherlock invented Moriarty, so he presumably invented the code as well, and hid - "

John came about as close to shouting as it's possible to do in a whisper. " _Oh my God no!_ " Then in a more normal whisper, "Sorry - of course you think that because of what I told you last night. I meant to explain today that Sherlock wasn't actually a fraud. And unfortunately, Moriarty is also real. It's Richard Brook that's the fraud."

"But didn't Sherlock tell you he - "

"Sherlock _said_ he was a fraud, just before he fell. But he must have been forced to say that somehow. And it wasn't suicide, either. I'm certain that he was _forced_ to step off that roof."

"What makes you so certain?"

"I worked very closely with him for eighteen months, and we shared a flat. Sherlock was real. He did manage to fool me on occasion, but he himself was very, _very_ real. I realize that's not proof for anyone except me, but that's how I know."

Despite the lack of logical evidence, Cathie found herself unable to resist John's confidence. She sat back so he could see her smile. "It's certainly not mathematical proof, but I believe you." Then she leaned closer to whisper, "OK, what was it again? 'A few lines of computer code'?"

"Something like that. 'A few lines' of - something, at least."

"Well, that probably leaves out passwords - but they'd surely be different for each institution anyway. So it could be in machine code or assembler or high-level code." There was a long pause while she considered the possibilities. "But each type of processor has its own machine code and its own assembly language, so those would differ from system to system as well." Cathie sighed. "And of course there are also a number of high-level languages." She gnawed on her lower lip for a few moments. "You did say that the same code works for any computer system?"

"That's what I was told, yes."

"Just off the top of my head, I have no idea how that could be done. In fact, it sounds impossible. But I'll give it some thought and maybe something will occur to me."

"That's all I'm asking. It's an area I know virtually nothing about, other than using my own computer."

She arched her back and stretched. "Could we get up and walk around for a while? I'm starting to get kinks in just about everything."

John got to his feet and offered her a hand, which she gratefully accepted. Even with his help, her legs were a little slow to respond. He shook out his jacket, draped it over one arm, and put his other arm around her shoulder as they started back the way they had come. "Truth be told, I had an ulterior motive for bringing you to this particular park. I'd like to show you my flat and let you meet Mrs. Hudson." He gestured with the jacket in a direction which Cathie took to be either south or west.

She slid her own arm around his waist and gave him a little squeeze. "I'd like that very much." Then as they walked on, she noticed a figure standing under a weeping willow, half obscured by its branches. "That's odd."

"What's that?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just that man over there. I could swear I saw him at the bus stop by the hospital earlier."

Cathie felt the muscles in John's back tighten under her hand as he calmly asked, "Which man?"

"In the gray sweatshirt and the jeans."

"Walking towards us?"

"No, the one standing under the willow over there."

"How sure are you? I can scarcely see his face for all the branches."

"Pretty sure. I noticed the man at the hospital because he reminded me of my Uncle Henry - Henry has a bad back, so he stands just like that, all slumped down. This man has the same short haircut and scruffy beard as the one at the hospital, too, and he's wearing the same kind of clothes. So I'd say it's probably the same guy."

"Please tell me _immediately_ if you think you see him again. But you'd better whisper it."

They left the park and walked a few blocks along a broad street crowded with traffic, threaded their way through the tour groups outside Madame Tussauds wax museum, and then turned left onto a street that was less broad but certainly had its share of traffic. John pointed to a bright red canopy a short distance ahead. "There's the cafe downstairs."

He stepped up to the door just past the cafe and opened it with his key, then ushered her inside and hung his jacket on a peg. "Mrs. Hudson!" he called out. "I've brought someone to meet you!"

John's landlady turned out to be a sweet woman about the same age as Cathie's mother. She greeted Cathie warmly, then asked solicitously, "Have you two had your lunch yet? I was just going to make some." Cathie was startled to realize that her breakfast had indeed worn off. However, she didn't want to put this dear lady to any trouble, so she had no idea how to answer the question.

John came to the rescue. "You needn't bother, Mrs. H.," he said, glancing at his watch. "If you'll just put the kettle on, I'll pop over to the cafe for some sandwiches before they close." And he was gone.

Mrs. Hudson smiled affectionately at the closing door. "Well, we'd better get ready." She led the way into a cheery little kitchen with a potted plant on the window sill. "Have a seat, dear." She filled the tea kettle and started it heating, then began to set three places at the small table. "Have you known John long?"

"Well, I met him a few months ago, but that was as a patient. We've only been dating for a few days."

"Oh, I see." She smiled. "I was _wondering_ how he'd managed to meet someone. He never _goes_ anywhere, you know, only to the surgery, so I've been worried about him."

Mrs. Hudson silently finished setting the table and cut a few slices from a loaf cake, then appeared to come to a decision. "There's something I should say now, before John comes back. You may have heard him mention his friend Sherlock?" (Cathie nodded.) "I suppose you know, then, that Sherlock died?" (She nodded again.) "It was all very tragic, and John just wasn't himself for months afterward. He kept wanting to talk about what had happened - but our friend Molly warned me that I absolutely mustn't let him do that, because it would be very bad for John's mental state. He's hardly mentioned Sherlock lately, but you might want to bear that in mind."

 _So that's why she kept changing the subject_ , Cathie thought. _Better be gentle_. "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. It's very kind of you to be so considerate of John. As you say, though, he does seem to be getting better, so he may be able to talk about it now without any harm." _Might as well finish it off_ , she thought. "As a matter of fact, he took me to the hospital today and showed me where it happened, and that actually seemed to be a relief to him."

A brief look of astonishment came over Mrs. Hudson's face, interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. "Thank you," she whispered as John's footsteps approached. "I really should remember that he's a grown man, and an army doctor at that."

John arranged the sandwiches on a plate while Mrs. Hudson served the tea, and then they all focused on lunch for a while, chatting only sporadically. When it was time for the cake, Mrs. Hudson suddenly gave a little "Oh!" of exasperation and told John, "There was a man here to see you yesterday evening."

"Who was he?"

"He didn't say his name. He just asked if you were in, and when I said no, he asked where you were - of all the nerve! I told him I certainly didn't know, and would he like to leave a message, but he didn't care to. I think he might have been one of those homeless people that - " She broke off and compressed her lips, but then took a deep breath and went on, "that Sherlock used to have dealings with. He had dreadful posture, and wasn't dressed well, and looked like he hadn't shaved for a week. Oh, and - " her voice sank to a whisper, "he didn't _smell_ very nice."

At the word "posture," John looked sternly into Cathie's eyes. _Well_ , she thought, _there's a "shut up" if ever I saw one_.

"I have no idea who that might be," he told Mrs. Hudson. "If he comes back, then for your own safety, please don't answer the door." While they ate their cake, he steered the conversation back to more comfortable matters, and when they were done, he stood up, saying, "I promised Cathie that I'd show her my flat." Taking that as a cue, Cathie also stood, and slipped her hand into his.

They took their leave of Mrs. Hudson, and John did indeed show Cathie the flat. But first they spent some time upstairs in his bedroom.


	3. We Need to Talk

They both had work the next day, so they planned a quiet evening in Cathie’s apartment and then early to bed. By the time they got around to actually sleeping, though, it was nearly two o’clock in the morning. The following evening, they had dinner in a restaurant, and John came upstairs only to say good night – with similar results. Therefore on Tuesday evening, after another restaurant dinner, they said their good nights downstairs on the sidewalk. This plan did result in more sleep, but they were both very much looking forward to Friday and another quiet evening together.

Friday afternoon had brought unanticipated news, however. “John, I heard from Corporate today.”

“Back in the States?”

“Right.” Cathie stalled by pretending that the soup needed to be stirred again, but there was really no help for it. “When I was transferred over here, it was no secret that I wasn't happy about it. My feelings have changed _somewhat_ since then, of course." They exchanged brief smiles. "But HR didn't know that, so today a nice lady from Corporate emailed me to say that they'd found a way for me to finish my project back home. It's up to me, but I have to let them know on Monday."

John looked thoughtful. "Is that what you want?"

"I don't know. You're the main reason that I might stay. It would be very helpful to me to know what _you_ want."

"I would prefer that you stay, of course, but I can't make the decision for you."

"Of course. I know that. But I need to know how you see it."

"It's your life and your career, so you're the only one who can decide - though naturally I hope that you stay."

"I'm not asking you to decide for me, just to give me your point of view."

The conversation continued along the same lines for some time, without ever becoming an actual argument but with no discernible progress either, until finally Cathie was horrified to hear herself say, "If that's how you feel, John, then you might as well leave now, because I have some packing to do." And it was true. If all John could offer her was a vague _preference_ that she stay, then she wasn't nearly as important to him as he had become to her, and they might as well end the relationship now, rather than wait for it to die its inevitable natural death. She had gotten on with her life before; surely she could do it again.

John left, looking sad but resigned, and from her front window Cathie watched him walk away.

She allowed herself to sob (quietly, because of the neighbors) until she could no longer breathe through her nose, then left a phone message for the landlord and set about doing as much packing as she could. Laundry would have to wait till the day before she left of course, and so would packing the things that she used on a daily basis. Within just a few hours, she had run out of both tears and things to pack, and was developing a queasy feeling that she eventually identified as hunger. The pot of soup was still sitting on the stove, but she had turned the heat off after John left, so it was barely lukewarm now. _What difference does that make_ , she thought, reaching for the ladle, but nearly dropping it when the door buzzer sounded. _Of all the times for the landlord to respond so quickly - and in person yet!_

But the voice on the intercom was a very familiar one. "It's me, Cathie. Please let me come up."

She buzzed him in, then scurried into the bedroom for the small collection of his belongings that she had already gathered into a grocery bag. She opened her apartment door just as John reached the landing, and thrust the bag at him. "I was going to drop these by your office. Thanks. You've saved me a trip." That dealt with, she attempted to close the door, but found it blocked by John's hastily-placed foot.

"Thank you, but I didn't actually come for my underwear. May I come in? Please?"

He was about the last person she wanted to chat with just then, and she was mortified to have him see her blotchy, swollen face. But the peculiar look on _his_ face (anguished relief?) aroused her curiosity, and she waved him in.

"I would have been back sooner," he explained, settling himself at one end of the sofa, "but it took Mrs. Hudson a while to explain that I'm an idiot." Cathie started to open her mouth, but he interrupted before she could say anything. "No, no, she's right. Please sit down - this is going to be hard enough as it is."

She perched on the opposite end of the sofa and eyed him warily.

John rested his elbows on his knees and looked down at his own loosely clasped hands. "First, I want you to understand that I'm not expecting you to just forget what I did. I have no right to expect that. I treated you thoughtlessly, and I'm here to apologize."

She was dumbfounded. "But - but all you did was tell me how you feel. I _asked_ you to tell me. And it's just as well that you did, because it's saved us both a lot of wasted energy."

"That's just it, Cathie - I _didn't_ tell you how I feel. I thought I had, but Mrs. Hudson made me repeat exactly what I had said to you, and I said I'd told you _several times_ that I prefer that you stay - "

" _Prefer_ is what flavor of ice cream do you want," Cathie blurted, with a bitterness that surprised even her.

" - and that's exactly what Mrs. Hudson said. Only I think she said biscuits. She had to explain that all I'd actually told you was that I wasn't going to help you decide. Then she asked how I felt since you decided to leave, and I said how do you _think_ I feel, I'm heartbroken, of course - and she said, 'Then you march yourself right back and _tell_ her so, John Watson!' So here I am."

The tentative relief that Cathie felt at John's confession, combined with a vivid mental image of the feisty landlady, caused something like a chuckle to bubble up through her nasal congestion. "You came back because Mrs. Hudson _made_ you do it?"

John had raised his head at the sound of her chuckle, and now returned her weary smile with one of his own. "No, I'm here because what she said made a lot of sense." He looked earnestly into her eyes. "I love you, Cathie. Please don't leave, not unless that's what you really want to do. I honestly would be heartbroken."

She reached out to him and he took her hand. "I love you, John. I never _wanted_ to leave, I just didn't know there was any reason to stay."

"We need to talk, don't we, Cathie?"

"Talk?"

"I thought about it on my way back here. You were brave enough to lay your cards on the table - you told me that I was a major factor in your decision. I doubt I'd have had the courage to come back if you hadn't said that. But I didn't reciprocate. This misunderstanding would never have happened if you'd had any idea how much you mean to me. Which is my fault, obviously."

"No it isn't, not really, John. People don't normally talk about that sort of thing when they've only been dating for a week."

"But we're not actually all that new to each other, are we -- we've known each other for months." He smiled shyly. "I used to look forward to your appointments, you know - though I _was_ beginning to wonder whether you might be a hypochondriac."

"Nope, not a hypochondriac, just had a crush on my doctor. I was actually relieved when you finally pointed out how many times I'd come to you with some silly little thing. It forced me to say that I was interested in our conversations as much as your medical advice."

"And I had to admit to a similar interest." He cocked his head. "There's something that I'm still curious about, though - it occurs to me that your entire array of problems was limited to your extremities. Just a coincidence?"

Cathie blushed. "No, that wasn't a coincidence. I know it's silly, John, but once we started getting acquainted, I would have been embarrassed to undress for a checkup - even if they gave me some sort of inadequate little garment like we get back home. It's odd, because I've never been the least bit embarrassed to undress for a doctor before. I guess it's because I was thinking of you - meaning no disrespect - as more of a man than a doctor."

"No offence taken." He smiled. "In fact, I shall choose to take that as a compliment."

 _You should_ , she thought, _because I've never met anyone who was more of a man than you_. But it would have been _far_ too embarrassing to say that just yet, so she merely smiled back at him.

After a quiet moment, John cleared his throat. "Cathie - I assume you think it's too soon to talk about anything at all permanent - "

She nodded emphatically. "Right now, yes."

"I think so too. But perhaps we can at least agree on where we stand at present."

She shifted nervously in her seat. "OK, I suppose so."

"Do you want to date other people? In _addition_ to me, that is."

"Not especially." She gave it a bit more thought. "No, I don't. What about you?"

"No, I don't either."

"So." She took a deep breath. "We're - monogamous?"

"Till further notice, at least."

"At least." She smiled, then her smile turned into a thoughtful frown. "John - there's one other thing - what's the terminology over here? What do I call you - my boyfriend? Or is that just for kids?"

"Boyfriend is fine. Good, in fact. I mean, I'd like that. Assuming I can call you my girlfriend."

"You've got a deal." She turned the hand-holding into a handshake.

"Well," he said, "shall we celebrate? I think Angelo's is still open, if you like Italian food."

"That sounds good - or we could stay here and have that homemade soup I promised you. I could just reheat it if you like."

"Oh, sorry! I forgot all about the soup. It smelled wonderful - but do I dare say that I _prefer_ it hot?"

Cathie collapsed in giggles (which she later ascribed primarily to having the tension broken) and fell over with her head on John's knees. He began to chuckle, and then to curl her hair around his finger. The weekend was off to a good start, after all.


	4. Time to Get Some Answers

Next morning, John returned from some mysterious errand just about the time that the apple-walnut bread in Cathie's oven was beginning to smell like a really promising breakfast. Judging by the look on his face, he was dying to spring a surprise on her - so, not wanting him to burst from the strain, she aimed a blatantly quizzical look in his direction.

He grinned and pulled a small flat box from his jacket pocket. "This is for you. I hope you like it."

Intrigued, she lifted the lid. Inside the box was a heart - a dainty filigree heart on a delicate chain. _Oh, dear_ , she thought, _not my sort of thing at all. But he looks so pleased, and he must have spent a good half hour picking it out._ She had a mental flash of John diligently scrutinizing every item in the jewelry store's display case for something that he thought suited her, and suddenly she loved the little heart and all that it stood for. "Oh, John, it's just beautiful." And it was.

* * * * *

As John refolded the newspaper after breakfast, he asked, "How about a walk?"

"Sure. It's not actually raining, is it?"

He glanced out the window. "Not really."

So Cathie grabbed her rain hat just in case, and they started off. When it became obvious where they were heading, she wasn't at all surprised, but just pulled him close and whispered in his ear, "Back to Bart's?"

"Yes," he whispered back. "I keep thinking that I must be overlooking something - that if I can just look at things in the right way, it'll all make sense."

They walked the same route as before and again stopped beside the rectangle where Sherlock had fallen. John stood there for several minutes, gazing down in silence and occasionally glancing in one direction or another. Then he looked at Cathie as though he was about to say something, but his mouth had opened only slightly when a look of horror came over his face. Before she knew what was happening, he had whisked her through a nearby archway into a courtyard, then this way and that through corridors and alleyways until they finally emerged onto a busy city street and slowed to a walk.

"What in heaven's name was all _that_ about?" she panted.

He stopped in a doorway and took her into his arms. "I saw something that startled me, that's all," he whispered.

She wanted to feel satisfied with that, but couldn't. "What was it?"

"I'll tell you later. I promise." He looked around. "Right now, let's just keep walking, while I try to sort this out."

They strolled on, with John in silent contemplation and Cathie continuing to puzzle over their hasty retreat. She finally attempted to distract herself by window shopping, but still couldn't stop looking uneasily around, out of the corners of her eyes. And that's why she saw him. At first she thought it was just her jitters playing tricks on her, but she finally had to admit that he really was there - a slumping figure, looking into shop windows just as she was, never more than five or six doors behind her, but never closer either.

While this was sinking in, John had gotten a few steps ahead of her, and she had to call him back. She turned her back on the stalker, so that John would be able to see him over her shoulder. "It's him again," she whispered, "Uncle Henry, back by that store with the yellow sign. He's got different clothes on today, gray sweat pants and a brown jacket, and he's wearing sunglasses, but it's him, I'm sure of it."

John didn't react noticeably, except that his eyes shifted direction slightly. After a moment, he whispered, "Yes, I see him. But how can you be sure it's the same man, at this distance?"

"I've been watching him for a while now, and every time I stop to look into a window, he stops. Every time I start walking again, he follows me. And he slumps like that."

"Let's keep walking and see if he keeps following us." He took her hand and they continued to stroll, chatting at normal outdoor volume about meaningless things. Every so often, John slowed down or speeded up or stopped briefly, masking it all with appropriate changes in their mock conversation. Cathie soon noticed that whenever John turned his face toward her in a companionable sort of way, his eyes turned even further, so that he was actually glancing behind. _He must be holding my hand to steady himself when he's looking backwards_. She tightened her grip.

After a few minutes of this, he stopped in front of a dress shop and put his arm around her. "You're right," he whispered, "he's definitely tailing us. It's time to get some answers. I want you to keep walking along looking into shop windows. No matter what happens, don't turn back. If you think I need help, then stay where you are and call nine-nine-nine on your mobile. Have you got that number? It's three nines."

Cathie was starting to tremble. "Yes, three nines," she whispered. "But what - "

"Just stay where you are. No matter what. Will you promise me that?"

"OK, I'll stay there. But - "

John said nothing further, just gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, then walked briskly on down the street and around a corner as though he was out for the exercise. _He must be planning to double back and tail Uncle Henry_. Despite her misgivings, she continued strolling from window to window and pretending to admire the displays, though in truth she wasn't even seeing them.

Quick glances out of the corner of her eye revealed that Uncle Henry was maintaining his customary gap. Then just as he crossed in front of a narrow alley, something came hurtling out after him. Instinctively, she turned to stare, and gasped. John had jumped him from behind.

Uncle Henry was already fighting back, of course, and they seemed evenly matched, though the stranger clearly had better leverage with his long arms. She was trying to decide whether John would want her to call 999 just yet, and wondering if she should call them anyway, when Henry suddenly reared up to his full height, and with what looked like a judo throw, flung John flat on his back onto the pavement.

Now that he had shaken off his assailant, Cathie expected him to bolt, but instead he bent over John, who, to her intense relief, demonstrated that he was still functional by grabbing two fistfuls of the other man's jacket. Henry easily broke his hold, though, and this time he did run away.

By the time Cathie realized that she had at least technically broken her promise to stay put, she was already kneeling beside the still-prostrate John. "Are you OK?"

"I'm fine," he assured her. "Got the wind knocked out of me, that's all." The incredulous expression on his face told her there was more to it than that, but she put off asking until they could talk more freely, away from the small crowd that had gathered. He flexed his arms and legs experimentally, then apparently satisfied, got to his feet and dusted himself off. "There's someone we need to visit."

As they turned to leave, John stopped and bent down to pick something up, a pair of sunglasses. Apparently Uncle Henry's, dislodged in the struggle - no surprise there. He folded them up and put them in his pocket. _Evidence_ , she thought.

Considering the sort of morning they were having, Cathie would have welcomed a chance to sit down now in a quiet cafe, but John had more pressing matters on his mind. He led her straight to a tube station, saying merely that he'd explain later (which was beginning to sound familiar), and when they emerged a few stops down the line, led her straight to what appeared to be a private residence in an exclusive neighborhood. A small plaque near the door, however, identified it as something called the Diogenes Club. Presumably John was looking for an honest man.

"I suspect that women may not be welcome here," he had warned her as they walked from the tube station, "and I'm not exactly on their A-list either. So we'll just move quickly, and hope they don't kick us out immediately." Then as they approached the front steps, he added in a whisper, "And they don't allow talking. At all."

Oddly enough for such a fastidious establishment, the door was unguarded, so they were able to walk in without being challenged, though she did notice a rather agitated elderly gentleman gaping in their direction. John turned immediately to the left and approached an interior door, where he gave two sharp raps, then turned the knob without waiting for a response.

A tall slender dark-haired man rose from a chair as they entered. "What an unexpected surprise," he said mildly. Apparently the no-talking rule didn't apply in this room.

Cathie stopped just inside the door, but John walked right up to the man, clearly invading his personal space, and demanded, "Tell me what the _hell_ is going on."

"Why, John," the man protested suavely, "I have no idea what you're talking about. And you haven't introduced me to your charming companion." He smirked in her direction.

Still bristling, John turned toward her as well. "Cathie, this is Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's big brother. He's some kind of mysterious big shot in the British government. Mycroft, this is Catherine Patterson." Then, turning back to Mycroft, "And you know damned well what I'm talking about. I don't know whether it's just your people, or if Moriarty is involved as well, but in either case you would know all about it. We're being followed, which is bad enough, but an hour ago, I saw what appeared to be a laser gun-sight aimed at Ms. Patterson's forehead. Threaten _me_ if you must, but _leave her out of this!_ "

Cathie suddenly felt a bit faint, and groped for something to steady herself. John still had his back to her, but Mycroft walked very efficiently over and helped her to a nearby chair, then moved to the other side of the room. Meanwhile, his actions had alerted John, who hastily perched on the arm of the chair and put a protective arm around her shoulders. "Oh my God, Cathie, I'm sorry," he murmured. "I promised to tell you later, but I didn't mean like this! That encounter with Uncle Henry must have distracted me even worse than I realized."

By then, Mycroft was back with a glass of water. "If you'd prefer something stronger, just ask. I'm well stocked." She smiled weakly and shook her head, but gratefully accepted the water. Mycroft solemnly seated himself in a chair facing them. "John, I honestly do not know anything about either incident. There are always covert operations, of course, but none of them currently involve either harassing you or threatening Ms. Patterson. And if Moriarty's people were doing anything of the kind, you're right, we would know it."

John did not look entirely convinced. "Then tell me this: Is Sherlock really dead?"

Mycroft blinked. "That's an odd question."

"Just answer it, please."

"Hearsay tells me that he died. But you were there, John. You don't need to rely on hearsay. What did you see?"

"You know damned well that I saw what I was _meant_ to see." He leaned toward Mycroft in mock-confidentiality. "But that was all an act, wasn't it? For my benefit?"

Mycroft appeared to be genuinely bewildered. "Whatever makes you think that, John?"

"The man that you didn't know was following me? I tackled him today, hoping for some answers. He got away, but in the process, he lost his sunglasses, and I had a brief glimpse of his eyes. They're very distinctive, Mycroft. Oddly shaped and a peculiar shade of blue - with a small brown spot just above the right pupil. Do you know anyone with eyes like that?"

"Surely you're not suggesting .... "

"A man can cut his hair. He can let his beard grow. He can change his posture and contort his face. But unless I was hallucinating, yes, that's _exactly_ what I'm suggesting!"

Mycroft took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then gave them an apologetic half-smile. "As I said, I know nothing about this, John. However, I will look into the matter. I'm sorry, but that's the best I can do. Meanwhile, I very _strongly_ suggest that you avoid involving yourself in matters that do not concern you."

John seemed about to retort that this damned well _did_ concern him, but merely snorted softly, stood up, and helped Cathie to her feet.

As they approached the door, Mycroft spoke again. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Patterson. I hope that this _unusual_ incident does not give you a false impression of our country. May the rest of your stay be a pleasant one." She barely had time to nod politely before John opened the door, and they exited the house in hasty silence.

As soon as they were well away from the Diogenes Club, John stopped and faced Cathie, with his hands on her shoulders. "I seem to be spending a lot of time apologizing to you, but after this, with any luck, it'll just be for little things, like accidentally stepping on your toe. I meant to give you a proper explanation, not spring it on you like that. I truly am sorry."

"You were right - what you told me back there - you were distracted. And I _definitely_ want to hear more about that distraction. But right now, could you just hold me?"

He wrapped her in his arms and held her silently while she clung to him. As soon as she felt stronger, she backed off half a step, announcing, "And next, I'd like some lunch, preferably _sitting down_ somewhere comfortable."

Fortunately, John knew of a good cafe just a short distance up Regent Street (and Cathie finally realized where they were, nearly in Piccadilly Circus). They placed their order, then he pulled his chair around beside hers and told her sotto voce about having seen dots of laser light shining on himself and Sherlock once, when Moriarty's hired guns were aiming at them. "So it was the worst sort of déjà vu, seeing that laser dot on your forehead at Bart's this morning."

She winced. "Do you think someone was actually trying to shoot me? Or just trying to scare you?"

"As Sherlock used to tell me, 'It's a mistake to theorize before you have data.' I don't know. I wish I did."

"What about Uncle Henry? Did you mean what I _think_ you meant about his eyes?"

"As I've said before about all this, it could be just wishful thinking. And I _had_ just got the wind knocked out of me. But right before he ran off, you may have noticed that he bent over me. My first impulse was to go on the defensive, but then I had the strangest impression that he was worried he had hurt me - which was ironic, because I'd been trying so hard not to hurt the poor disabled man, just restrain him. It wasn't until he was turning away that I realized what I'd seen. Or what I _think_ I'd seen."

"But you _do_ mean to say that Uncle Henry is actually Sherlock?"

"That was my _impression_ , yes."

"Then what was he doing at Baker Street the other day?"

"Assuming that it really was Sherlock - who knows? Proving that he could fool Mrs. Hudson? If he'd really intended to talk to me, he'd have come when he knew I was there." John shrugged and sighed. "Maybe he was just homesick."

"So none of this has given us any answers, just more questions."

"True. But Mycroft may shed some light on the attempted shooting. And as for Sherlock, I've gone from wondering whether it's even conceivable he's still alive, to thinking it's definitely possible, perhaps even probable." John smiled wistfully. "That's nothing like an answer, but I'd call it progress of a sort."

"So you may get your answers yet. But speaking of Mycroft, I was kind of woozy back there - could you please tell me what I said to him?"

There was a pause. "Actually, I can't think that you said anything at all."

"I don't think so either. So how did he know that I'm a foreigner?"

"I'm sure he'd be glad to tell you precisely _which part_ of the United States you're from if you asked him. He's like that. He notices things - maybe your shoes gave you away, or the way you hold a glass of water. You should try being in the same room with him _and_ Sherlock." He smiled nostalgically. "Come to think of it, you might get that chance someday."

* * * * *

John had invited her to spend the night at his flat (as even she was beginning to think of it), promising that _he_ would fix _her_ breakfast for a change, and Cathie had readily accepted - not for the breakfast, really, since that meant she'd have to volunteer to wash the dishes, which she hated - but rather because she was eager to see him in his native habitat.

By morning, she was feeling right at home. He seemed to be taking a relaxed approach as well, appearing after his shower wearing what she called his bathrobe because she couldn't say "dressing gown" with a straight face. "Looks like you're in no hurry to go out today."

He walked on into the kitchen and started puttering. "I'm rather inclined to let the world run itself without my assistance for the moment. We could go out to a restaurant later, though, if you like. We still haven't been to Antonio's."

They were having a nice quiet breakfast while John read the Sunday paper, when suddenly he began to gag and cough as though he'd choked on his toast. Cathie went on the alert, mentally reviewing the Heimlich maneuver - but clearly he could still breathe, so she forced herself to let him deal with it. He pushed back his chair abruptly and darted up the stairs.

Feeling somewhat deserted for the moment, Cathie pulled the newspaper around so she could read it. John had it open to the personal ads, or whatever they called them in London, and a blob of strawberry jam had ended up on the page during his coughing fit. As she wiped the jam off with her napkin, the ad it had landed on caught her eye.

> UMQRA: Stop investigating. Say  
>  nothing. Please. All in good time.  
>  Spock PS: Laser pointer.

Some sort of Star Trek role-playing thing, she assumed, though she didn't recognize the first word, or maybe it was an acronym. She read a few more ads on the same page, and decided that most of them were also slightly strange.

Before she could decide which section of the paper she actually wanted to read, John came galloping back down the stairs, fully dressed. "I've changed my mind - let's go for a walk." Not even bothering to sit back down, he shoveled the rest of his breakfast into his mouth and took his plate to the sink.

Cathie was mildly indignant. "But I've just gotten a good start!"

"Please? We can go to the cafe in the park, and I'll buy you whatever you want."

The beans on toast in front of her constituted a perfectly fine (albeit somewhat bacheloresque) breakfast, so Cathie couldn't see the point of buying another one - until she stopped to think that perhaps the important difference between this breakfast and a cafe breakfast was that the latter was _not_ in John's flat. _And we still don't know whether this place is bugged_ , she thought. _Maybe I should just play along_. "Actually, a nice walk in the park does sound good to me."

John briskly folded up the newspaper and tucked it under his arm. "Let's go, then." She eyed her half-finished plate indecisively. "Just leave it, Cathie. We can wash up when we get back."

Shrugging, she followed him out the door.

By the time they reached the sidewalk, John was wearing a broad grin and nearly dancing with excitement, but still didn't say a word. _Something to do with Sherlock, then_ , she thought.

This time, they walked to the north end of Baker Street and entered what she assumed was a different side of Regent's Park. Putting one arm around her as they strolled along a lake, he drew her close and whispered, "As soon as we find an out-of-the-way spot, there's something in the newspaper that I've got to show you."

"By any chance are you talking about that Star Trek ad?"

"Star Trek?" John seemed momentarily puzzled - then startled. " Do you mean the one that said 'Spock'?"

"Right, that one. You sprayed your jam all over it."

"I see. Good, then I don't need to show it to you after all. Barring some unfathomable coincidence, that was meant for me. I _would_ say you'll never guess who it was from, but ... "

" ... judging by your reaction, it was from Sherlock."

"Nobody else in the world would know that first word - though it was never a word, really, just gibberish. I'll tell you about that case sometime, but my point right now is that when I wrote up the case for my blog, I did _not_ mention the UMQRA incident. And the only person I ever _did_ tell was Sherlock."

"So he used that as a password, to get your attention."

"I don't know what else to think."

Cathie tried to remember the rest of the ad. "Basically, he wants you to lay off?"

"Basically. And it's very important to him - he said 'please.' I'm guessing he's afraid I may blow his cover."

"Sounds like he's tracking down Moriarty."

"That was my thought, too, so I'd best stay out of his way. But that last bit was certainly good news."

She couldn't recall how the ad had ended. "Umm - what did it say again?"

"'Laser pointer.'"

It took a couple of seconds for that to sink in. "Oh! So no one was trying to shoot me, after all."

"No, apparently it was just Sherlock trying to scare us away." He pulled her to a stop and hugged her. "God, Cathie, I'm so glad I can talk to you about this! Can you imagine what my therapist would think if I told her Sherlock is alive?"

Cathie giggled. "Or your friends. Oh, by the way, I found out why Mrs. Hudson wouldn't talk about Sherlock. Molly had warned her that it would be bad for your mental health or something."

"Molly? Seems like an odd thing for her to say. If she were a psychiatrist, I'd think it was just one of their latest theories, but she only works with dead people .... " John trailed off with a stunned expression on his face. "In fact, _she works at Bart's_. Damn! _She_ helped Sherlock figure out how to be 'dead.' No wonder she's been avoiding me!"

"You think she was worried that she wouldn't be able to do a convincing 'grief-stricken'?"

"Maybe. Probably. But that can't be all of it. That wouldn't explain why she didn't want Mrs. Hudson talking to me about it either - surely _she_ wasn't in on it, she was just as grief-stricken as I was. Even after she started changing the subject, I could still see it in her eyes. No, I suspect that was Sherlock's idea." John's voice was now taking on a bit of an edge. "Don't let John know. Don't give John a chance to figure it out."

"Why?"

"Because he's Sherlock. Because the case is all that matters, people's feelings be damned. Because if anyone suspected he wasn't really dead, all they had to do was look at me, his bloody grief-stricken Exhibit A."

Cathie was startled by the rapidly growing anger in his voice. "I thought you were happy that he's not dead."

"I _am_ happy." John grinned meaningfully. "Whenever the son of a bitch shows up, I'll probably punch him first, then give him a hug. Or the other way round."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of using an ordinary laser pointer to mimic a firearm's laser sight was suggested by a series of posts begun by Kathi on Sherlock Forum. Thank you, Kathi!


	5. Consequences

They were getting better at actually sleeping in the same bed, so they were able to spend the next few nights together at Cathie's without seriously degrading their work performance. John had let her know, however, that come Thursday morning, he would be taking an early train to Manchester for a two-day medical conference, and wanted to be sure of getting his sleep beforehand. So on Wednesday evening, they finally had dinner at Angelo's, then kissed goodnight at Cathie's door.

On Friday, Cathie came straight home after work even though John wasn't due for another hour, and immediately got started on dinner - partly so he could come back to a home-cooked meal, but mostly to keep herself from fidgeting. She was just getting the chopped onions up to a good heat in the frying pan, though, when the door buzzer sounded.

"Hello, who's there?"

"It's me, Cathie." That was surely John's voice, but not at all the cheery tone she'd become accustomed to. _He must be dog-tired, poor fellow!_

"Oh - welcome back, John! Come on up!" She buzzed him in and opened the apartment door, then noticed that the onions were starting to smoke and hurried back to the stove. _I'll just give them a good stir and turn off the burner for now._ She heard hesitant footsteps on the stairs - not his usual trot - and then heard the apartment door close. The onions summarily dealt with, she turned, expecting to see him coming to her for a welcome-home kiss. But he was standing just inside the door, leaning back against it with his eyes shut and his jaw clenched.

"Oh my God, are you running a fever?" She started toward him, but his eyes popped open and his hands pushed earnestly against the air.

"No, stay back. Please, Cathie, don't come any nearer."

She paused, halfway there. "Don't worry, I'm not about to kiss you if you're contagious. I just want to feel your forehead, and then I'll make you some tea."

"I'm not contagious." One corner of his mouth quirked briefly. "And that's the end of the good news, I'm afraid. I can't stay for tea, and you'd best sit down." Bewildered, she went and sat on the sofa, with no idea what to say.

He waited for her to settle, then began. "I'm about to apologize again, but this time it's for a mistake that I made before we even met." His voice was strained, as though forced through a constricted throat. "I can't say I'm entirely sorry, because if it hadn't been for my mistake, we might never have known each other. But I am _very_ sorry for the effect it will have on you now." He smiled forlornly. "I would beg your forgiveness, but perhaps the best I can hope for is that you won't hate me."

"But I - what in heaven's name are you talking about?"

"You recall my telling you about my drunken spree a few weeks after Sherlock's fall?" She nodded, still bewildered. "And about waking up in a strange woman's bed, with no memory of how I'd got there, or what I might have done?" She nodded again. "Well - " He took a deep breath. "Wednesday evening, when I got back to Baker Street, that same woman was waiting on my doorstep. She - " He grimaced, took another deep breath, exhaled, shook his head.

"John, why don't you sit down?" She stood up and moved aside. "Here, you can have the sofa, and I'll go make you some tea - just a simple cup of tea, it won't take long."

"I meant it, Cathie, I really can't stay. Believe me, I wish I could." He waited till she sat back down, then gritted his teeth and forged ahead. "She told me she's pregnant. So I didn't go to Manchester after all, I took her to the surgery first thing yesterday and Doctor Sawyer - sorry, her name's Brunner now - anyway, Sarah confirmed it. The woman is unquestionably pregnant." Speaking slowly and deliberately, he continued. "She told me I'm the father, and demanded that I marry her."

"Oh." His behavior was starting to make horrible sense. "But - but surely she can't _force_ you to marry her." She thought frantically. "Can't you just pay child support?"

"Of course I offered to do that. But she said if I didn't marry her, she'd have an abortion. And I believe her."

"John - I think I understand how you feel. But she can't - you aren't responsible for her decision. Surely you sometimes refer women for abortions."

"Yes, of course, and you're right, it's their decision - but that's my job. This is personal. This _does_ concern me."

Now frustrated, she blurted out, "But you don't even know whether it's your child!"

"That thought occurred to me, too, of course, and I've given it a great deal of consideration. The gestational age is about right. But I finally decided that it really makes no difference to me. I don't particularly _want_ to know for sure, because even if it isn't mine, it could have been. I acted very irresponsibly a few months ago, and actions have consequences. This is my responsibility."

 _He's being way too hard on himself_. "OK, suppose a friend came to you in a similar situation, thinking of marrying the woman. What sort of advice would you give to him?"

"I'd tell him he was mad, of course."

"Of course." She sighed with relief. "There's no reason for you to hold yourself to a far higher standard than you'd expect from anyone else."

John smiled gently at her. "I can't argue with that, and if I were marrying her merely out of a sense of obligation, you'd have talked me out of it by now. It would have been easy, because I'd have _wanted_ you to talk me out of it." He sighed. "And I'm just putting off telling you my real reason."

He squatted down to her eye level. "I don't know how well I can explain this, Cathie, but I'll try. I owe you that much, at least. I've tried to analyze my reasons, in an effort to talk myself out of it. But it's not guilt and it's certainly not because I feel sorry for her. And I'm determined to keep emotion out of it insofar as possible - I wouldn't let Sarah show me the ultrasound, and I don't even know whether it's a girl or a boy. So my reason is none of those things, and I have no argument against it. It's just this feeling that I have - this is what I'm supposed to do. That's what I meant when I said this is my responsibility."

It had apparently taken all of John's determination just to get to that point, because he now looked completely spent. Allowing himself to tumble out of the squat, he sat on the carpet, leaning back against the door. "I doubt that makes any sense to you, but there it is."

 _But it does make sense. Finally everything makes sense_. Cathie found that she was no longer fighting John's decision, and then noticed that tears were welling up and running down her cheeks - no sobs this time, just the pent-up urgency draining from her eyes.

"Oh God, Cathie, I'm sorry."

"Don't worry too much about the tears, John," she assured him hastily, "I'm kind of adjusting. Look, I know this is nothing like what you're doing, but there was a stray cat hanging out behind my office building back home. There were always stray cats, of course, but somehow this particular fellow was my responsibility - like you said, I just knew it. He tested positive for feline leukemia, and the vet suggested putting him down right then, but I knew that he wasn't a quitter. So I took him home with me, and we had a very good year together before he finally got really sick and died."

She plucked a tissue out of the box on the end table and blew her nose. "So yes, what you say does make sense to me."

"Thank you, Cathie. I don't know why I was so worried that you wouldn't understand. Maybe I was actually scared that I didn't know what I was doing."

She slid down off the sofa and sat cross-legged on the carpet, leaning forward, closer to him. "You're doing what you feel is right, John, and I respect that. I'm very proud of you. You're a good man, and you'll be a wonderful father." An image popped into her mind, John smiling down at a tiny baby cradled in his arms, and then she did sob, but only once or twice. "I just wish I could share that time with you."

"I do too, Cathie. I do too. But I'll be the best father I know how. And also the best husband-in-name-only." He sighed. "Speaking of which, I left her in a restaurant down the street, so I really do need to leave." He clambered to his feet.

She got to her feet as well and took a tentative step toward him. "How about a hug? You sure look like you could use one, and God knows I could too."

"A hug would be wonderful. But - " He raised his hands again to signal "stay back." "Would we be able to stop at that? If I hugged you, I know I'd want one last kiss - and so forth. I'm about to become a legally-married man, so I'd better start acting like one."

"Can I at least say that I love you?"

"Please do."

"I love you, John."

"I love you, Cathie." He stood looking at her for a long moment, while she tried not to think that this was the last time she'd ever see him. "Damn it," he finally muttered, "this is even harder than I'd expected. Would you mind just closing your eyes? I really can't bear to walk away with you looking at me."

"That's a song, isn't it?" She closed her eyes, and it did help a little.

"I love you, Cathie."

"I love you, John."

She heard the door open, then close, and muffled footsteps retreating down the stairs. Every instinct was screaming at her to run after him, but she forced herself to stand there, her eyes squeezed shut, till she heard the downstairs door open and then close.

Her eyes flew open - _Oh my God, he left his things in the bathroom!_ She ran in to check, thinking maybe he would come back for them but knowing that he wouldn't. It was only a toothbrush and deodorant, anyway, nothing he didn't have duplicates of at home. _No, wait, what about his spare shirts and his underwear?_ But all she found in the closet was one of his undershirts in the laundry basket. She pulled it out and hugged it to her chest. It smelled like John.

She walked around the apartment, turning off all the lights and locking the door. _Never mind the onions._ Returning to her bedroom, she undressed and pulled on John's undershirt, then curled up in her bed, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Cathie is reminded of is "Leaving on a Jet Plane" by John Denver, specifically the line "Then close your eyes, and I'll be on my way."


	6. I Never Expected This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something apparently ate the end of this chapter, but I believe I've fixed it now. My apologies to readers who were left hanging, and a big thank-you to Caya for notifying me!

London hadn't really changed much in twenty years. Of course, Cathie would never have accepted the transfer if Corporate hadn't been so insistent that they needed her particular skill set for an urgent project, and (more to the point) if she hadn't been reluctant to rock the boat with retirement getting closer. But now that she was actually back, she was surprised at how delighted she felt - despite the uneasy feeling that she might somehow bump into John and his wife.

After an exhaustingly-busy first week, she didn't even bother to set her alarm on Friday night. When she awoke, it was a beautiful morning, and she decided to treat herself to breakfast at the cafe in Regent's Park. According to the internet, John was living in Kensington now, so his old neighborhood should be safe enough.

Inspired by the cool fresh air and the sunshine, she decided to walk to the park - not all _that_ far - and immediately got into the sightseeing spirit, tipping her head back to admire the decorative upper stories of the beautiful old buildings. While looking everywhere but down, she tripped on what must have been the only rough spot in the entire sidewalk, and might have sprained or broken God-knows-what if she hadn't been caught by an alert young man who happened to be walking next to her. _Must you think of every adult male under the age of thirty as a 'young' man? she scolded herself. For heaven's sake, you sound like your grandmother!_

"Are you all right?" he asked anxiously. "Are you feeling dizzy?"

"No, no, I'm fine," she assured him. "I must have tripped." She looked back, but didn't see anything she could have tripped _on_. He insisted on walking along with her for a few minutes, just to make sure she was OK, then they parted ways, and she continued on to Regent's Park, watching her step more carefully.

What she remembered fondly as the Garden Cafe was now something else entirely, with a completely different interior, but that didn't matter, because she wanted to sit out on the patio anyhow. She had promised herself the eggs florentine, but of course the menu had changed as well, and nothing really appealed to her. _Oh, well, it isn't really about the food, is it? Just pick something!_ She bought a pastry, some yogurt, and tomato juice, and found an available table. It was small and had no umbrella, but at least it had a good view of the entire patio.

Between the warm sun on her back, the constant murmur from the other tables, and the chance to simply sit and relax for a change, she was drifting in and out of a daydream with her breakfast barely touched, when four men crossed in front of her, threading single file between her table and the next. She recognized the one in the lead immediately - despite having gained a noticeable amount of weight and having lost a noticeable amount of hair, he was clearly Mycroft Holmes. The thinner man just behind him (with the unruly mop of salt-and-pepper hair) she recognized from news photos - he was just as obviously Mycroft's brother Sherlock, who had indeed turned up alive after a couple of years. Next came a tall slender fellow with curly brown hair and a medium-brown complexion, a _young_ man by anyone's standards - she had absolutely no idea who he was.

But her attention immediately focused on the last man, the shortest of the four. She might possibly have recognized him just from the way he walked, and she would certainly have known that profile anywhere. Other than his hair, which was now pure silver, and sunglasses (which she had never known him to wear), he hadn't changed a bit. John Watson.

Embarrassed that he might see her, which would assuredly be awkward, she bent over the purse on her lap and made a show of fumbling through it. Discovering the trashy novel she'd bought for the plane, she pulled it out and held it in front of her face as though reading it, but then of course peered over the top. In the meantime, the party of four had been lucky enough to find an umbrella table vacant, and had seated themselves so that she could see the Holmes brothers' profiles, the young man's face, and - thank goodness - John's back.

Lowering the book, she savored what she could see of him and blinked back a few tears, grateful for this unexpected opportunity to see how he was doing - and relieved that his wife wasn't with him. Every now and then, John's laughter drifted over to her, sounding truly happy. His forced marriage must have turned out far better than he had anticipated. She was glad - he deserved that. Then she caught one word from the young man, "Dad." He was addressing John, and suddenly she realized who this must be: _Good heavens, it's the baby - all grown up!_ He seemed to be the sort of son she would be proud to have. She'd been right about John being a good father.

All too soon, the four men finished their tea - or maybe it was coffee - and stood to leave. Three of them did in fact leave, ambling off away from her, but she was startled to notice that the coltish young man wasn't merely walking in her general direction, he was aiming his quizzical smile directly at her. He reached her table and looked down at her.

"Hello. I know this must seem like a strange question, but is your name Cathie?"

Startled speechless, she nodded, and he grinned triumphantly.

"I'm Jeremy Watson." He reached out a long slender hand and she shook it.

"How did you know my name?" she asked, gesturing toward the other chair.

Jeremy sat. "I noticed you looking at Dad, and I thought you looked familiar. Then I remembered - when he told me about you, he showed me your picture."

That didn't make this feel any less odd. "I'm glad to meet you, Jeremy, I really am. But isn't this kind of awkward? I'd really appreciate it if you didn't tell John that you saw me."

"Why not?" he asked, still grinning. "He'll be delighted to see you!"

"No, please don't. That would put him in a very awkward position. Maybe he didn't tell you this, but he and I weren't just friends, we were romantically involved, right before he married your mother."

"Yes, I know that." He looked puzzled, but then his brown eyes lit up. "Oh, of course - _you_ don't know! He's been divorced for years, ever since Mum ran off with a Russian diplomat. And you're not wearing a wedding ring. So - I'll go get Dad and bring him back here." A doubtful thought flitted across his face. "Unless you're dating someone?"

 _So John's divorced - that's why he sounded so happy. It must have been a pretty dreadful marriage after all, while it lasted_. "No, Jeremy, I'm completely unattached. But John and I were really together for only a few weeks, and we haven't even seen each other for twenty years. I'm glad to hear that his memories of me are pleasant, but I assure you, I'm ancient history to him by now."

"No, I don't think you are." He looked pointedly at her. "And he's not ancient history to you, either - I believe that you had tears in your eyes."

Embarrassed, she merely commented, "You're very observant."

He stood and grinned again. "Thanks. That's what Uncle Sherlock says, too." And he walked energetically off in the direction the other three men had taken.

 _Damn it, I should have stopped him. What the hell am I going to say?_ But she had to admit that the mere sight of John had awakened long-dormant feelings. She pulled a small mirror out of the purse and checked her reflection. _Nothing stuck in my teeth, hair looks as good as can be expected on a breezy day_. She forced herself to read the trashy novel, or more accurately, to look at the pages. The words didn't seem to be reaching her brain, but at least the pretense kept her from peering anxiously into the distance - very often.

Then she saw the two of them returning, John looking up at his son, saying something she couldn't hear, but none too pleased, judging by the exasperated look on his face. Jeremy seemed unfazed, wearing another broad grin. When they reached the far edge of the restaurant's patio, Jeremy pointed her out, then took a seat.

John continued toward her alone. She noticed that he was no longer wearing the sunglasses, revealing crinkles at the corners of his eyes that she would have found delightful if it hadn't been for the slightly irritated set of his mouth. _Oh, great_ , she thought, _it's gonna be 'Oh, hi, how have you been,' and he'll invite me out for dinner, and we'll have a stilted, meaningless conversation, and then he'll say 'We must do this again sometime,' and I'll agree, and that'll be that. What the heck, might as well get it over with_. She forced her own face into something that she hoped bore some resemblance to a smile.

She had intended to say, "Hello, John," as soon as he came to a halt, but he was already speaking as he completed the last couple of paces. "Good morning," he said, now wearing an artificial smile with his crinkles. "I'm sorry to intrude on your breakfast, and I apologize for my son's intrusion as well. He seems to believe that any woman who is single must therefore want to meet me. I hope I have convinced him otherwise." He paused and blinked a couple of times as though running through a mental checklist, then reiterated, "Sorry to have bothered you," turned and started back toward Jeremy.

Mortified, she felt her cheeks burn, and tried with only limited success to stop herself from crying. Abandoning her breakfast, she stumbled from the table and ran down the first path she came to, not caring where it lead, just as long as it was somewhere else. _He didn't even know who I was! I can't have changed all that much - his son recognized me from just an old photograph. Jeremy didn't tell him who I was, that's obvious, but why didn't John recognize me too? Doesn't he remember me at all? Did he_ want _to forget me?_

She ran till she was out of breath, which at least put an end to the tears, then walked as briskly as she still could, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the fiasco. The rhythm of her footsteps began to sound like a voice calling her name, and she gradually realized that she really was hearing a faraway voice shouting, "Cathie! Please stop, Cathie! Please!"

What now? _Oh, God - Jeremy finally told him who I am, and now he feels obligated to apologize again. It just keeps getting worse, doesn't it?_ Not being one to postpone the inevitable, she stopped. There was a bench under a tree nearby, empty because it was chilly in the shade today, so she sat and studied her own fingers until she could hear him running toward her. _Now remember, it's John, not some stranger. This is awkward for both of us_. She steeled herself and looked up to face him.

He stopped just a few feet away, breathing heavily. "Sorry, I'm a bit out of practice running, obviously." He peered at her hopefully but cautiously, and then beamed at her. "It really _is_ you, isn't it? Jeremy insisted it was, but I could scarcely believe it." He came closer as his smile turned to bewilderment. "But why didn't you tell me who you were, Cathie? Why did you run away?"

It now sounded so silly that she was ashamed to tell him, but it was the truth. "I thought you had forgotten me," she said simply. "I was embarrassed."

"I wish Jeremy would believe that I hate surprises. He loves them, so he merely insisted that I should go say hello to that woman over there. If I'd had any idea who you were...." His voice trailed off into an anguished sigh.

That explanation left her just as bewildered and frustrated as before. "I don't understand, John," she said, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. "Jeremy recognized me from two tables away. You were close enough you could have touched me."

"But the sun was - oh, shit!" He began patting various pockets, then extracted the sunglasses from one of them. "I keep forgetting to wear these damned things. The only time I really miss them is when there's bright light shining in my eyes - the glare nearly blinds me nowadays." He glanced at the tree overhead, and put the glasses back in his pocket. "Would you mind if I sat down?"

Cathie didn't answer, but slid over so John could have the other end of the bench.

He sat, cautiously. "Am I forgiven?"

She thought a moment. "You didn't recognize me - because you couldn't see me - because the sun was in your eyes?"

"Right. A delayed effect of my years in Afghanistan, apparently."

"Then I guess there's really nothing to be forgiven." She gave him a tentative smile. "You're looking good, John."

"You look wonderful, Cathie - now that I can see you." He cleared his throat. "Jeremy tells me that you're single?"

"Well, I've moved around a lot, every time I was assigned to a new project. I've dated, of course, I just never found anyone I wanted to settle down with." She paused. "Jeremy said that your wife - left you?"

"She stayed with me for a couple of years, and then Sherlock came back - he did come back, you know?"

She nodded. "It was on the news back home. And that was him at the cafe, wasn't it?"

"Yes, that was him all right. Now what was I saying? Right, Sherlock came back. He never has _liked_ any of my girlfriends, but he hadn't bothered actually hating any of them until he met my ex-wife. Their egos clashed, I think. And every time one of his cases interfered with her social plans for me, she'd be furious. She finally found herself a more suitable mate at the Russian embassy."

"A diplomat, Jeremy said."

"That's what _she_ calls him. I have it on good authority that he's actually more of a junior clerk. But apparently he's invited to embassy parties - which is more than she could ever say for me."

"Sounds like it was just as well that she moved on. But Jeremy seems to have turned out fine."

"Jeremy is more than fine, he's the best son I could have imagined. Even Sherlock likes him. In fact, they started playing detective games before Jeremy could really talk." He grinned. "From my point of view, the best news is that Jeremy became a licensed private investigator yesterday, so now he can legally do just about anything that Sherlock and I can."

"So - Jeremy is going to work with you and Sherlock now?"

"He has been for years, sort of unofficially - as our apprentice, you might say. But now he's with us full time, which is a relief to me. The downside of working with Sherlock has always been that my girlfriends keep dumping me because of my erratic schedule - if you could even call it a schedule. I paid for Jeremy's training with the understanding that he and I would take turns working with Sherlock, so that each of us could have a social life for a change." He shook his head and let out a little snort. "It's probably just as well that you and I didn't run into each other any sooner."

"Oh, there was no danger of that! I didn't even get here till Monday, and they've kept me so busy that this morning is the first free time I've had."

"Interesting coincidence."

She thought he was going to say more, but he just smiled at her with a bemused expression. Not knowing quite how to take that, she broke the silence with the first thing that came into her head: "Well, Jeremy should be a good detective - he seems to be very observant." _And that reminds me_ \- "He said he recognized me from a picture you'd shown him, but I don't offhand recall that you ever _had_ a photo of me."

John smiled, just a little uncomfortably, she thought. "I'll show you." He pulled out his wallet and extracted a small stack of photographs from behind a credit card. Flipping through them, he handed one to her.

It took her a couple of seconds to realize why it looked familiar. "How did you get my passport photo? Did your office have a copy in my medical records?" Then, before he had time to reply, "Why, John Watson, this is my _current_ passport photo! How in heaven's name - "

He didn't answer immediately, apparently organizing his thoughts before he spoke. "I've always assumed you'd be married, so I wouldn't let Mycroft tell me where you were or what you were doing, only that you'd returned to the States. But he did insist on giving me a copy of your passport photo - and then this new one, just a few weeks ago. I think he's still trying to make up for letting me believe that Sherlock was dead for two years. In fact, I wouldn't be _at all_ surprised if he organized our "chance meeting" today - had you told anyone that you were coming to the park?"

"Not a soul. I didn't know myself till I woke up this morning and saw what a beautiful day it was."

"Nobody? Maybe a cab driver?"

"No, I walked. Oh - wait - actually there was somebody, that nice young - that nice man who caught me when I tripped. I'm pretty sure I mentioned it to him."

"You tripped, you say? Over what?"

"Well, that was the funny part - there _wasn't_ anything that I could see."

"The nice man's foot, maybe? Or his umbrella?"

"Are you saying that he tripped me on purpose?"

"That would be my guess, so he could strike up a conversation with you. He found out where you were headed, then I'll bet he texted Mycroft. And I can testify that Mycroft decided on a sudden _whim_ that the four of us should take a nice walk in the park - and then casually suggested that my inquisitive son should sit where he just _happened_ to have an unobstructed view of you."

"I suppose it could have happened that way, but - well, that sounds kind of - "

"Paranoid? With friends like Sherlock and Mycroft, you eventually _learn_ to be a bit paranoid. It can save you some nasty surprises."

"But how would Mycroft have even known that I was in London? I didn't know I'd be coming myself till maybe five weeks ago. It was all very sudden, they needed somebody with my qualifications for this rush project, some sort of - oh, dear! - John, it's some kind of _government_ contract."

He grinned. "I've always suspected that under his cold, calculating exterior, Mycroft is just a hopelessly romantic pussycat."

"No, no, that's silly. It must be just a coincidence. I mean, why would Mycroft go to all that trouble to bring me back? Why not just introduce you to some nice woman who's already right here in London?"

"Well, I _am_ still carrying your photo in my wallet. That presumably means something. And I suspect that Jeremy has told Uncle Mycroft some of what I've told him about you." He smiled suddenly - changing the subject? - and said, "Let me show you Jeremy's baby pictures."

She slid close enough to see. Using his best proud-father voice, he told her the story behind each photo - Jeremy as a newborn, Jeremy learning to walk, Jeremy's first day of school, and so on. The pictures had all been trimmed down to fit in the wallet, but in the earlier ones, she could see the plump freckled arms and long red hair of a woman holding Jeremy.

"Who's this?" she asked, pointing.

John seemed to be puzzled by the question. "That's Charlotte." And his tone added _of course_.

"Charlotte?"

"My ex-wife. Jeremy's mother."

"Jeremy's _mother_? But she's - uhh - she isn't - "

John chuckled. "Oh, right, she's not black. And I suppose you've just guessed that I'm not Jeremy's biological father after all."

"Then she tricked you into marrying her!"

"Perhaps. I suspect she honestly didn't know who the father was. Once Jeremy was born, she may have been able to guess, of course, though she never told me. But I raised him - with only minimal help from her, even before she left us. So I'm his father - and he's my son."

His sleeve was brushing against hers. She had been fighting the temptation to reach over and touch him, but right now it seemed so appropriate that she gave his arm a friendly little squeeze. "I knew you'd be a good father, John." She pulled her hand back (a little too quickly because of her uncertainty), then bent lower to have a really close look at Jeremy's newborn picture, and felt the chain around her neck slither into a new position. The dainty filigree heart hanging from the chain tumbled out of her shirt and bounced off John's hand.

She immediately sat up straight, a little embarrassed, and tucked the heart back where it belonged, but John had already seen it. "Is that - ?"

She nodded silently, looking awkwardly away while John continued talking.

"I feel a bit guilty saying this, but I always had the impression that you didn't really care for it, that you wore it only to please me. But you're still wearing it." The question in his voice was clear enough, even though he hadn't put it into words.

She turned back and met John's gaze. It was direct but gentle, just as she remembered him, and she found it easy to be frank. "You're right, it's not the sort of thing I would have chosen for myself," she admitted, "but it means a lot to me, John. Nobody else has ever treated me quite the way you did, like I really mattered. You trusted me. Even though I assumed you were still married, and I never expected to see you again, I just couldn't ever bring myself to take it off."

"Cathie, you did matter to me, and you still do. You listened to me, really listened. You didn't laugh when I said Sherlock might be alive. You walked with me over half of London while I tried to figure things out. Without your encouragement, I doubt I'd have nosed around enough to get Sherlock's attention, and he would never have put that advert in the paper. Even though I lost you, you had already given me hope."

"But Sherlock would have come back in a couple of years anyway, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so. But I still wonder what my life would have been like for those two years. Jeremy needed me, of course, and that kept me busy, but sometimes the only thing that made dealing with Charlotte really bearable was knowing that Sherlock was alive and might be back soon. And I wouldn't have had that if you hadn't taken me seriously."

"Well, _you_ took _me_ seriously first, you know. You didn't write me off as a hypochondriac."

John smiled with his eyes. "How could I? You always managed to make me laugh."

She grinned. "I took it as a challenge."

He held the eye-smile a moment longer, then seemed to remember the photos he was holding. He gathered them into a neat stack and tucked them back behind the credit card. "Cathie," he said softly, still looking at the wallet in his hands, "I never expected this opportunity. I'd like to stay in touch, at the very least." Pause. "Or we could start dating again." He looked her cautiously in the eye. "What do you want to do?"

She touched his hand. "If I said let's play it safe and just be friends, I'd always wonder what we could have had together. Wouldn't you?"

This time he smiled with his whole face. "Let's give it our best shot, then. How shall we begin?"

"Well, I didn't have much of a breakfast. I'm staying not too far over that way." She pointed in what she hoped was the approximate direction. "By the time we walk there and I fix some sandwiches, it'd be time for lunch. How does that sound?"

"Sounds like a good start." He stood to push the wallet back into the pocket of his jeans, retrieved his sunglasses, then reached out to her. She let him pull her to her feet, and they walked away hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Benedict Cumberbatch for helping to inspire this story. And very special thanks to Martin Freeman, for breathing such life into the character of Dr. John Watson.
> 
> The title of this story is taken from John Denver's song "For Baby" (also known as "For Bobbie").


End file.
